


on letting go (in the feedback)

by crookedsaint



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Incineration, M/M, i PROMISE there will be an equivalent amount of comfort to follow, lowercase mike, t for language, this series aka madden completely makes up what the shadows do, tillman henderson self actualization speedrun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsaint/pseuds/crookedsaint
Summary: Tillman Henderson comes back from the dead. Tillman Henderson attends a concert. Tillman Henderson makes inadvisable PR decisions.  Tillman Henderson makes inadvisable emotional decisions.The Garages call up Goodwin Morin. Mike Townsend retreats to the Shadows.
Relationships: Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne, Tillman Henderson/Mike Townsend
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you as always to zo and ferrets for enabling me
> 
> chapter one precedes my tilldec fic, vulnerability is not poggers, and chapter two is sometime vaguely after it. if you're feeling impatient, read that one in between!
> 
> (also i tagged this implied sexual content just to be responsible, but there's nothing remotely saucy. sorry wild wings fans!)

“this is actually kind of nice.”

“Shut up, Townsend, you’re gonna mess ‘em up.” Tillman swears under his breath. He wasn’t ever that good at painting nails, but it can’t be that hard to fuck up “Alison did ‘em all black once and I liked that.” But Mike keeps moving _just_ a little to one side or another, and by now he’s used more remover than polish. “Again.”

“no, no, i wanna dwell in the moment.” Mike stares out the window at the rain outside. “we don’t get a lot of these.”

“Of what?” Another nearly imperceptible shift. “Goddamnit, stop _moving._ ”

He blinks. “uh, i’ll try.” But he’s clearly not in a stay-quiet-and-fade-into-the-background kind of mood tonight, because he carries on: “like, good memories. usually the things we Remember? they suck, dude. up until today my most vivid memory of blaseball was phasing out of existence.”

“Mmph.”

“like, i guess championship wins were always nice. until now. but if we really try, if we just focus, we can make anything Memorable. if i didn’t think about it, i wouldn’t remember you messing up my pinky nail like you’re doing. but now i’m gonna.” He chuckles to himself. “i just think it’s neat.”

“Very insightful. Stop fucking wiggling.”

“i’m not moving, tillman. i’m staring at a stationary object and breathing slowly.”

“You _are_ moving, every, like, five seconds.” He manages to make the left thumb look passable, sighs, and screws the cap back onto the polish. “Just don’t touch ‘em. Should be fine.”

“huh.” Mike looks down at his hands. “thanks. feels organic.”

“Don’t mention it.”

-

“Townsend, get your goth ass out of that dorky mesh shirt and into bed. It’s too fucking late.”

“get my ass out of my shirt? uh, done.” Mike hikes a leg over the footboard and flops backwards. “and it’s, like, eleven.”

Tillman throws an elbow over his eyes. “First of all, not what I meant. And second of all, I like, just rose from the grave _yesterday_. I need my beauty sleep.”

“today.”

“Today?” He peeks, just a little. Mike’s taking off his shirt. Not nearly as much of a little shit as he pretends to be, then.

Makes one of ‘em.

“i mean. yeah. way earlier today, but. today.”

A shower, drain full of ashes and god knows what else. A concert backlit by a vivid orange sunset, with Mike front and center. An afterparty, where they didn’t talk. An after-afterparty, where they did.

But Henderson boys don’t kiss and tell.

“Huh. So we’ve really only been talking for a few hours?”

“doesn’t feel that way, does it?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

He reaches over, catching Mike by the cheek, and kisses him. So maybe he will tell: Mike really is a credit to his team—would be a credit to any team. Tillman’s kissed more than a few Lovers players (who hasn’t?), and even they don’t have Mike’s quiet way of making you feel… important. When he’s kissing you. Tillman doesn’t have nearly so much going for him, but he does his best, holding tight to the back of Mike’s neck. His free hand props Mike up as he bends further forward, deepening the kiss, _reminding_ Tillman. Grounding him.

Then the moment’s ruined, because Mike’s hands are fucking _cold_ and they’re under his fucking _shirt_ —

“Hey!” Tillman swats at him.

“equivalent exchange!” The grin on his face is stupid, easy to miss. Here one moment, gone the next.

“Don’t you Fullmetal-whoever-the-fuck _me,_ Townsend!”

He backs off. “all right, all right. just. the opportunity.” A flash of that same grin. “you get it.”

Tillman gets it. “Fuck you. No. I’m gonna go put my shoes on to spite you.”

Mike leans back into his assortment of pillows and throw blankets, sinking a bit. “disgusting. can’t believe i’m sleeping with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“no, i’m gonna.”

-

Sleep, after everything, after peanuts and demolished stadiums and screaming fans, comes too easily, too cleanly. It only means waking up at three in the goddamn morning, a-fucking-gain, to the Garages’ late night practice. Tillman shivers. He reaches for Mike, hoping for some comfort—not like _that,_ Jesus, he’s crude but not _that_ crude, just some warmth—

The bed is cold beside him.

“Townsend?”

Soft noises from the other side of the bed. “what?”

Tillman blinks in the pale light filtering from between blinds. Squints. “U up?”

“asshole.” Something cold, rushing past— _through_ his cheek. It buzzes, fizzes, when it leaves.

“Townsend?” he says, more frantically this time. Not too much—can’t have him getting the wrong idea. But he can see, now, the curve of the covers over Mike’s shoulder. The place where his forehead meets— _met_ Tillman’s collarbone.

“oh. that’s—”

“—not good, yeah, I gathered.” And in that moment, Mike flickers. Sits up straight. And the sheets fall through him.

“tillman, I’m gonna need you to—”

“ _What the fuck._ ”

“this happened last time.” His face is cold, closed-off. “listen, it’s okay—”

“ _What. The fuck._ ”

“—it’s nothing new—to me, I mean, it’s obviously new to you—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Dark Star. Equivalent exchange. _Fuck._

He deflates, shifting a few inches to the left. “yeah. it’s me.”

“You didn’t say.”

“didn’t know.”

“Liar.”

“yeah.” Mike looks down at his hands. “i mean, at least i got you to paint my nails before. last time, i hadn’t trimmed them in a week, and then i stopped being able to hold clippers.”

Deep breaths, Henderson. “Can we get back. To the part where you were telling me everything’s fine.”

“oh, uh. yeah.” He flickers a few inches up, and then drifts, tediously slow, back onto the bed. “so. this happened last time. went ghost, everyone lost it, got overwhelmed, had to work my way back up to being a person again.” He scratches the back of his neck. “after a few months of experimenting, we figured out i can still, like, manifest? if i try hard enough. hence—”

“—the bakery.”

“yeah. but like,” he says, avoiding Tillman’s gaze—Tillman' eyes, filled with something like _please_. “i need to focus, and i’m sort of a regular no focus jones. or. no focus townsend?” He laughs softly, one hand trying and failing to grab at the blankets. “bread works, though. bread’s always worked.”

Tillman sighs. “I mean, I’m with you. Who the hell else gets convinced to play a sport with games literally every day?”

“right. yeah. so i can’t pass a physical, that’s for sure. but,” and here, Mike reaches out a hand. Meets his eyes. “we can try something.” Grins. “you hold my focus pretty well.”

He doesn’t suppress the instinct to scoff quickly enough.

“oh! oh, yeah, okay.”

Shit. “Wait, no, Townsend—”

“no, no, i get it. i misread things.” He gets up off the bed—“gets up,” as if it matters where he puts his feet—phases a few feet forward, starts putting on his shoes. “i need to talk to the captain, anyway—haha, i don’t actually know who’s captain anymore! crazy, right?”

“Townsend, _wait_ —” And Tillman’s on his feet and Tillman reaches _through_ him, and his hand burns cold and hot at once, and it’s like if sparkling water could _hurt,_ and it’s like if lightning didn’t, and it’s like a screeching speaker in your _bones_ —

Mike doubles over, stifling a groan.

“Fuck. Fuck.” 

He looks up at Tillman, his expression indecipherable. “i gotta go, tillman. you have to let me go now.”

“Fuck that, no, explain yourself.” 

And he stands up. “i mean. didn’t think it would come up this soon, but now’s a good a time as any.”

Tillman’s hand still feels like it’s his other hand and not there and on _fire_ , and he wonders how Townsend is even upright. “What do you mean?”

“your character arc. it’s about loss, right? grief?”

“My _what?_ ”

“you’ve lost your team to ascension. hell, you lost them before that—you come back, you’ve missed too much, and you end up at the garage and not the crabitat.” He leans back on the doorframe, too casual about this for comfort. “our showers suck, so it’s not like that’s the reason.”

“I don’t like this.”

“and, like, this isn’t super new for me. so it must be happening because it’s new to _you._ ” Mike spreads his arms wide and he’s in the corner by the bed, where the light from outside doesn’t quite reach. “i get it! i really do. jaylen’s whole thing was, hey, what’s my life worth? is blaseball worth a human life? my life? okay, but what about townsend’s?”

“I don’t _like_ this.”

“and so she gets to come back. it makes sense. the whole league has to deal with those questions now! hell, those and more! how many lives is one star player worth? how do we stop her? can we stop her? are we in control? were we ever in control?” He pauses. “so why did you come back?”

“Mike. Come on, man.” Tillman starts towards the bed, but when he hears Mike’s voice again, it’s coming from behind him.

“see, jaylen didn’t really lose anything. i mean, rough deal, yeah! totally.” He’s behind Tillman’s jersey, still black with soot, hung over the side of the dresser. He’s talking like he’s coherent, but his hands are wobbling—fading?—as he gestures. “but she got everything back. her fans, her skills. her team, even if that didn’t last. so it’s almost nice! and people start taking things a little more lightly! hell, even paula turnip has stopped trying to set her on fire. again.”

He wanted to—what did he want? He wanted to reach out and shake him by the shoulders. But—

“but so far, things are looking pretty bad for you! and, and now you’re basically a fan favorite, so—”

He was a coward. Tillman Henderson was a fucking coward too scared of a little pain to just reach _out_ —

“—they’re all going to have to deal with it. they’re finally going to have to take resurrection seriously. they can’t keep making jokes about it, because look at tillman! he’s grieving for a team that’s half-there that he’ll never reach and aching to fight a god who’s already dead and honestly, it’s probably better if i just leave now? things are only going to get worse from here, so—”

That breaks him. “They’re gonna _what?_ ”

“i mean.” He purses his lips. “if i just go now, maybe it won’t all go down like this. can’t have an effective narrative device without at least three instances within a single plot structure, and.” He shrugs. “i’m the third, aren’t i? crabs, batting, me. so maybe you can just have, like, a fun, goofy time, and soon everyone will get resurrected. it’ll be a cool ghost party. i’m honestly not sure who’s in control here. like, if you get super granular with it, are the fans the ones who shape our vibes? god? gods? or just ourselves?”

None of it makes sense. Too much of it makes sense. Tillman’s head aches, and his hand’s full of _sensation,_ and his mouth still tastes like ash, and he’s trying to put it together and nothing fits and too much of it makes sense.

“so uh. i’m just gonna head out. you can go back to bed if you want. or don’t.”

And the door shuts.

“Fuck me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (apologizes to you for the last chapter with this one)
> 
> if you haven't read vulnerability is not poggers, my other tilldec fic, you might want to! it takes place before this chapter chronologically. but like i'm not your dad

“Hey, Suzanne?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I’m bad at letting go?”

Declan looks over his shoulder at him. “The fuck do you mean, Tilly?” 

He leans back in the kitchen chair, its legs creaking against the linoleum. “Answer the question, bitch.”

“Either explain your arcane question or stop distracting me,  _ bitch. _ ”

“Don’t call me a bitch, bitch!”

“Look, do you want cake or not?”

“Only cake I want is yours, heyo!”

Sighing, Declan sets down the mixing bowl. “You must be deflecting. My ass is flat as hell.”

“Got that right.”

“What’s this about?” He crosses his arms, leaning his hip on the counter as he does so.

Tillman fusses with the collar of his sweatshirt. “Remember what I told you about Townsend?”

“Oh, yeah, world’s weirdest breakup.”

“Still not sure it was a breakup.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Declan yawns. “Get to the point, I want this in the oven before midnight or else the decoration’s gonna be shit. Can’t trust myself with a piping bag after two AM."

“Since when do you even bake? That’s some fruity shit right there.”

“Since Socks wants chocolate cake for their birthday.” He picks up the whisk again, turning his back on Tillman.

“Socks is a cat.”

“We’ve been over this. Socks is a member of the family and they can have whatever they want for their birthday.”

“How do you know they want chocolate cake?”

“Oh, Socks and Goob are like, super tight. He asked them months ago, it’ll be a great surprise."

Tillman’s thankful for the brief distraction. He hadn’t actually though that hard before asking, and Declan’s focus on tempering the eggs properly gives his brain a chance to catch up with his mouth. Why the hell is he still so worried about the Townsend thing, anyway? Sure, it’s fresh and new to be the one on the receiving end of an aggressively cold shoulder. And, yeah, the quiet, buzzing coldness still hasn’t left his hand. But he’s Tillman Henderson! He doesn’t need to be told he’s “valid” for “having trauma” about “negative experiences.” He sure as hell doesn’t need someone else to be a fucking grief counselor.

And yet.

He pulls his legs up onto the chair, crossing them underneath himself. “All I mean is, like, your team was definitely pretty messed up about losing Kirby. And the whole Tyreek thing was an utter shitshow.” Great job, Tillman, keep dropping the names of people your boyfriend loved until they burst into flames before his very eyes. Real power move, super cool of you.

“Yeah?” Declan glances over at him as he goes to grab a tin from the cupboard. Tillman looks down.

“But you’re fine.”

“I’m fine?” Declan repeats. Parchment paper crinkles in the background. “Come on, pour this for me. My greasy little hands aren’t powerful enough.”

Tillman stands up, taking the bowl offered to him. “I don’t know. I’m being a wimp about this Townsend stuff and I don’t know why.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, you’re too good at this. Here, let me get the other layer.” Declan switches out the next cake tin expertly and slides the full one across the counter.

Tillman starts scraping the batter off the sides. “Just like. Points were made, you know? He kinda got my ass with his little speech. Can’t get it outta my head. And just ‘cause I like, learned my kickass protagonist lesson about it and started dating a smoking hot firefighter doesn’t mean I’m not a little…” 

“...fucked up about it?”

“Yeah.”

Declan reaches over to give him a soft squeeze on the shoulder. “Gimme a sec to get these in the oven.” 

As he bustles away, Tillman leans back on the counter. The Firefighters’ kitchen smells better than usual, the ramen-and-lunchmeat stank covered over with chocolate. Even this late at night, the whole place is brightly lit and warm. 

And yet.

Declan stands up. “You good?”

“Nah, man.” Tillman stares at his reflection in the window. “Nah. Not really.” He doesn’t let his face betray him, not yet, but he can feel it getting hotter. “Just, like.”

Declan slips an arm around his waist. “Bro, there’s nobody here. You can be a messy bitch.”

“I just think I might just be shit at letting go of people. Like.” He gnaws on his lip. “Not that I’m great at keeping them around.”

“Beg to differ.” Declan buries his face in Tillman’s neck and, okay, yeah, he’d like to keep  _ that,  _ thank you very much. “Keep going, bro. Emotionally open is a hot look for you.”

“It’s just like. Ugh. People are dying, you know?”

“Mhm.”

“And everybody just keeps playing blaseball. We kill god, everybody’s still playing blaseball! A whole team vanishes and a new roster appears, like, out of nowhere, and we keep playing blaseball.”

“Mm?"

“And I’m so hung up on a guy who’s not even dead that I keep fucking up my pitches. And now I’m playing like I’m a worse pitcher than _Mike_ _Townsend_ cause he sort-of-broke-up-with-me-but-didn’t? Like, I’m still fucked up over a guy I didn’t even _date._ Who does that?”

“When you were gone, the fans almost killed me.”

“What?”

Declan takes a deep breath. Holds him a little tighter to his side. “I played so bad that whole season that they started talking again. About, like, trying to get me killed. They did that with Kirby, you know.”

“Shit.” He runs a hand through Declan’s hair, not knowing what else to do. “Were you—”

“Not gonna sugarcoat it, man, I was a fucking wreck. Did  _ not  _ help that I thought it was a joke when I read the first headline.” His voice shakes, just a little bit. “Wasn’t as funny the second time. Or the third.”

“I got better.”

“I know.”

The oven beeps.

“I gotta get that.”

Tillman slips a hand into Declan’s as they pull apart. “You don’t need two hands for that, right?”

“Nah, I’m a fuckin’ Masterchef.” He drops the oven mitt. “Shit.”

He gives Declan back custody of both his hands. “Just rotate your stupid cakes and then get back to cuddling me.”

“Is it even cuddling if we’re both standing up?”

“It’s only cuddling if you don’t say no homo after.”

The oven door slams shut. Tillman jumps a little. “They’ve still got a solid fifteen or twenty before they set properly. That recipe is way off on cooking time.”

Tillman nods, pretending he knows what that means. He holds his arms out at his sides, a quiet invitation. Declan accepts, wrapping his arms around Tillman’s shoulders. 

“So.”

“So?”

“You know.” Tillman hides his face in Declan’s hoodie. Whatever stupid girl group concert it he’d gotten it from, it’s soft. And it smells like his shampoo. 

Declan sighs. “I guess my point. Is that we’re not, like, Blagonball characters, dude. Just because  _ some _ of us come back  _ some _ of the time doesn’t mean we don’t go through shit.”

“So I’m not like, fucked up in particular if I—” He bites back his words. “I really regret bringing this up, you know.”

“If you what?”

“Don’t be like that, Suzanne.”

“Like what? Your boyfriend?”

He chuckles into Declan’s shoulder despite himself. “You win.”

“Achievement unlocked: hold boyfriend close in kitchen.”

“Shut up,” Tillman says, and he kisses Declan. He bring one hand up to Declan’s cheek, slipping the other into his pocket. It’s… nice. Declan, who’s the last person you’d describe as pleasant, is a  _ nice  _ kisser. He can be pushy, sure, but as far as Tillman’s concerned, that just means he knows what Tillman’s into. It’s sweet. It’s often mind-numbing. And it’s nothing like kissing Mike, and it’s everything like kissing Mike, and that’s enough thinking for tonight, he’d better—

Declan pulls away. “Ugh, you know, it’s hard to be mad at you for that.” He smiles. “But I’m not supposed to let you get out of hard conversations by kissing my brains out.”

“Who says?”

“Your mom.”

“Fuck you, I’m never kissing you again.” Tillman shoves him away playfully, then catches him by the collar, intent clear.

“Come on.” Declan takes the hand on his hoodie and holds it at chest height between them. “Tilly.”   
“Suzanne.”

“ _ Tilly. _ ”

He hesitates. “I’m not fucked up if I can’t stop thinking about when Townsend disappeared, right? Like, I know you don’t mind me talking about it or whatever, but you’re also my boyfriend, so you have to put up with me now, and I can’t stop… replaying it? Like, if something had gone differently, you know? I just feel like I fucked it up and I can’t go back and bad shit  _ happens  _ in this game but… dying wasn’t my fault. Fuckin’ ump got me, that happens. But the shit with Mike was  _ my _ fault.”

Declan blinks, and Tillman’s sure he’s gone too far. But he says, “Babe, no,” and the look in his eyes says something else that Tillman’s not ready to hear. “How is Townsend getting norted your fault?”

“Not the norting, asshole, the… other part. The me fucking things up with him cause I got spooked. It’s not just that he goes ghost, and it’s not just that he tells me I should go to therapy or whatever. But then I go and make him think I don’t give a shit, and I give  _ lots  _ of shits, actually,” and Tillman’s grateful that he’s still got the counter behind him to lean on because he’s kind of falling apart a little and that’s already embarrassing enough without  _ literally  _ falling, “And I can’t go back and fix it.”

“I didn’t know it was like that.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know either until right the fuck now. Keep up, Suzanne,” and he means for it to come out acid and clever like usual but it’s not, because his fucking face has finally let him down. This isn’t what he wanted to be doing. If this is what impulsively asking for help always leads to, he’s never doing it again. “I fucked up. I hurt his feelings and I  _ give a shit about it.  _ Do you know how novel that is for me?”

Declan takes a tentative step forward. “Wait. So you’re just not used to… what? Feeling guilty?”

“Is this what being  _ guilty  _ feels like?”

“Oh my god. I was feeling bad for you and everything, Tilly, is this really the first time you’ve felt  _ remorse? _ ” His face cracks into a grin. “I was about to give you Josh’s powerpoint on positive nihilism. Fucking for real?”

Tillman does  _ not  _ wipe his face with his sweatshirt before speaking. “You bastard. I feel terrible. I hate this.”

“Tillman Henderson, king of mental health.” Declan envelops him in a hug, and maybe Tillman holds on a little tighter than usual. A little longer, too.

-

“You should call him, man.”

Tillman tugs the blanket over his head. “No. I’ve already felt guilty today. I’m never doing it again.”

“Sure. Totally.”

“...You gonna kiss the homies goodnight?”

“Of  _ course  _ I’m gonna kiss my homie goodnight.”

“Aw, I’m  _ your  _ homie now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to ferrets, who Witnessed me writing this! and ofc to all the other tillmikelan folks who talked to me about tillman despite the fact that he's tillman
> 
> apologies to the chicago firefighters fans for slandering them in this fic, i cannot promise i won't do it again


End file.
